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The bumps and scratches of the record are apparent through the speakers of an old player.
Soft lights are plagued with shadows, gleaming across all walls they were in.
Ian holds a lighter, wrapped in the closure of his hand, flicking it to the joint he had in his mouth. He flops down on the bed, pursing the blunt in his mouth, back and forth.
A stolen glance of their eyes, he could feel John's burning into the side of his head. But he didn't say anything.
He rested a hand to his chest. He feels strong heat build up in his throat.
John shifted his position on the bed, and again, nothing.
"Ian?"
A release of smoke from his lips. He flicks the dead bud into the ashtray on the nightstand.
Ian rolls over with a groan, enough to meet John's eyes. Enough to study every crease and detail on his stubborn face.
"Hm?"
He was waiting for the other to reply back.
It took an awful while for him to finally speak. But that was normal. Ian reconized that.
John cleared his throat, way to rouse attention.
"I was going to ask you, would you be interested in any of my records? Like, borrowing them?"
It was quite the way to start a conversation, Ian had thought.
"Aren't those your dad's?"
"Well, technically." John shrugged, sheepish eyes darting away. His fingers grip onto the sheets, rubbing the fabric in between each fingertip.
"You trust me enough with those?" Ian asked, incredulous.
"You know me too well, John. You know how destructive I am." Ian chuckles, deep in his chest.
"I know you too well to know you'll take real good care of 'em for me."
John's eyelashes fawn over his bright, shallow eyes, dark shaggy hair rests on his face in all those good spots.
The silence isn't uncomfortable, nessecerily, its warm, fits around the both of them like a glove.
Ian continues to observe, eyes widening at every sudden movement John makes.
It's not be creepy, feverish, anything like that. It's admirance.
The record skips and fizzles out.
"Oh, shit." John curses quietly.
The mattress squeaks and yelps under the sudden new pressure as he gets up.
"I forgot about flippin' it." John smiles, his eyebags creasing with it.
It was a honest attempt, Ian figured.
None of them knew how to act around the other, whether in the studio or in a intimate environment, right now.
And they both see it.
They see it through the thick tension built in the room.
"John." Ian said, sternly. Still keeping his voice light.
"What's that?" John inquired, breath haltered.
"How about we get to what we really want? There's the reason you're bein' clumsy, yeah?"
"Ya think so?" John smiles. He doesn't meet Ian's eyes. Quirk of his mouth, a tug on his lips.
"You don't have to be all shy in front of me." Ian sits up on his knees, beckoning John to come closer. His hands clutch at his elbows.
John lowers his position, skin to skin, face to face, so far unless one of them made a move.
And there it was, Ian insisted on top of him.
His lips meshed into Ian's mouth, sudden whirlwind of emotions clouding his thoughts.
But it felt like he didn't even need to act, nor did he even need to start up laboured conversations like such.
They were so interconnected, even the slightest wouldn't even make them think twice.
Not even words told them how they were feeling.
Ian's hands tightened, fierce around John's arms, pulling him down, close to his face. His hands fight and roam all down his clothed body, stretching his arms to his back, and flooding to the nape of his neck.
John presses his knees to the materess, digging harder into Ian's body.
"Oh, you're so fuckin' perfect- mm, can't resist." Ian mumbles, his hands wavering, shaky, almost like his body was jumping to the next move.
John keeps his grip on Ian's shoulder, hoisting himself, harder, onto his lips.
He pulls John down in between his legs, his face closer, hands running up his neck, to the slew of his jaw.
John’s fingers, they press into the novels of his spines, running up the flesh of his back.
Ian tries to suppress a noise, a light one, down in his throat.
He pulls away, much to John’s surprise, panting.
“ ‘M– I’m sorry, John…runnin’ out of stamina there.” He breathes, half joking, into John’s mouth. His hands meet the knobs of his knees.
“Don’t blame ya.” John chuckles a tad bit.
“Hard not to ruin a pretty boy like this.” His eyes gesture down to his body, adorned by his jumper, hiding his figure.
It was nothing Ian hadn’t seen before.
"Jesus Christ." John breathes. "You...wow..." At a loss for words, he keeps himself silent.
A smile spreads across Ian's features.
He was breathtaking.
The lights smoothed down the dips and curves in his bones, making his appearance all the more merrier. John probably could have lost himself in those dark, tender eyes.
"Ya think I could stay?"
"Mm, of course." John says. He can feel Ian's eyes exchanging sudden glances. "Why not?"
The room falls into quiet.
He breaks through the eventual silence.
"You - you want another record? The Clash? Beach Boys - nah, you don't fancy them like I do...uh, Sex Pistols?"
Ian shrugs. His eyes shudder in a blink.
"You know I don't care, John." He says with a laugh in his voice.
John chuckles, and saunters over to the shelf of vinyls. He flicks, erractic to find something they both enjoy.
But he chooses The Clash, either way, it was what they had first bonded over.
The record starts up slowly, spinning, gaining momentum.
John returns to the bed, upon hearing the crackling of the player. He exhales, and now dwells a cigarette in between his fingers.
"You got a lighter, Ian?"
"Hm? Oh yeah, I do. Want me to help ya with that?"
John leans in, binding the cig in his lips. He feels the hiss of the flame near his face.
A lump - hot and buzzing - in his throat. Always that sensation when he smoked.
He lurches back into Ian's lips, almost suddenly, with no control, tongue painting Ian's teeth and swirling around his mouth.
Ian is stunned, more so by John's assuredness, and the smoke that piled in his throat. It was raspy, in the back of his throat but nothing was off the table for him.
As long as John took control.
Hands roam each others bodies, flipping the fabric of their shirts over their heads.
John's callused and rough fingers carress his waistline, jutting over Ian's stomach, pressing to Ian's chest, passionately.
Sweat builds from shared heat.
John pulls away, but pecks Ian's temple, smoke drifting from his lips. A groan contained in his throat.
"Y'know I love ya, Ian."
"Mm??" He looks groggy. "Yeh, yeah, I knew that..."
He flops down on the bed - rolling himself back into a comfortable position.
A sigh, and John takes Ian into his arms, laying down beside him. The smell of his shampoo and the cologne is apparent in his soft, brunette curls.
John lets in a deep breath, in the sensitive skin - in the crevice of Ian's neck.
"Turn off that lamp, will ya?" He mumbles, his arms outstretching, finding a comfortable position on the other's body.
"It's your fuckin' house, John," Ian teased. "How about you do it - I'm not your maid."
John smiles, and Ian feels it burning into his skin. He angles himself to look at Ian's framed face.
"You know you would bend over backwards to do anything for me. You know you would." John lowered his tone, a sneer in it, too.
Ian leaned over to turn off the lamp anyways, and the room was now bathed in deep velvet darkness. He kept his hand steady on the back of John's head, running his fingers through thick strands of hair.
"I like this." Ian noted. John could feel the vibrations of words in his chest.
"I feel like we haven't had all this time to, bond, y'know what I mean? I'd love for maybe this band to be a little less stressful for the both of us, so - we could have things like these."
John only relaxed more.
He loved hearing Ian talk about whatever, really, but what made it even better was that...he knew Ian understood him as well.
He perks up.
"I - I don't know what to say..." John said, incredulous. There was nothing to say, as Ian probably knew that John was silently agreeing in his drift to slumber. The only reason John had spoken was to let Ian know he was still there.
"You don't need to, John, love." Ian reassured. "I get you like that - in a way."
John snuggles into Ian's chest, the faint smell of weed is still soaked into Ian's clothes. He feels his eyes start to close, and his thoughts blanketed by tranquility.